A/N: I'm back! This was just supposed to be a transition chapter but ended up being fairly long, since I figured it had been a while since we heard from James, my love.

And I don't know why my brain decided to introduce Hestia as a character - let me know if you like her, and I'll try to include her again later!

Big parts of this chapter were inspired by the Kaizers Orchestra Biography, 'Kontroll på Kontinentet' by Jan Zahl, since it has some great descriptions of the struggles of being on a tour bus for long stretches of time.

Western Europe, late May-early June 2020

"Take a listen to this," James said, filming himself with his phone, backstage at Rock am Ring. "It's been"—he looked at his watch—"eight minutes since we left the stage, and this crowd—this fucking crowd—is still singing the chorus of our last song."

He swept the camera out to the stage, behind which a mostly shirtless mass of people was swaying and belting out the words under the setting sun. It sounded surprisingly on beat considering the size of the crowd and the slow tempo of the song. Festival gigs could be so unpredictable; sometimes no one knew their songs, attending only for the beer and the mosh pits; other times, it was just as intense as any show of their own. Today definitely belonged in the latter category.

James turned the camera to the band and crew, who all stood listening, awe on their faces. Sirius looked particularly moved, beaming like a proud parent. As he should, given he wrote the thing.

"How much beer do we have in the green room?" Sirius asked Peter with a slightly shaky voice.

"Around three cases, I reckon."

"Oi, can someone bring that out here?" Sirius shouted and a few of the roadies took off.

James pointed the camera at the stage again, panning across the audience who were singing louder than ever. It didn't take long for the roadies to return, carrying four cases of beer between them. Sirius and the twins grabbed a case each and James handed the camera to someone else before he grabbed the last one and they marched on stage, ignoring the stage manager's protests. The crowd cheered wildly when they saw them, but most of them kept singing. The four Marauders walked to the edge of the stage, jumped down into the photo pit and began handing out bottles over the barricade. When the cases were all empty, they propped their elbows on the fence, clinking their own beers against the storm of bottles and plastic cups held out to them. The singing had died out now with most of the crowd pressing forward to touch and talk to the band members, hoping for autographs and photos. Techies began the changeover for the next act, but security gave them ten blissful minutes before dragging them backstage to a half-hearted scolding from Caradoc.

.

James lived for moments like that. Open skies, happy people, and brotherhood. And if it messed up a few timetables and gave a few managers and directors some grey hairs in the process? Even better. Tight schedules, security measures, and journalists too often got in the way these days, so the Marauders jumped at every chance they got for some spontaneity.

Not that touring wasn't still fun. Amsterdam had been a blast. As had Brussels, Paris, Luxemburg, Cologne, and all the festival gigs in between. They had set a personal record in tickets sales this tour—almost every venue had sold out within ten minutes of the tickets being released, and everywhere they went, they were greeted by a sea of fans wearing their gear and screaming along to every word James sang. It was everything he and Sirius ever dreamed about back in their cramped dormitory at school, competing over who could pick the fastest and disappearing into their own little silly world of wild daydreams and cringey songwriting, much to the annoyance of the rest of their house. All that and so much more.

But the days they weren't playing gigs were spent in stuffy TV or radio studios, answering the same boring questions, in hotel lounges with hordes of journalists waiting for their turn at the trough, in sound checks, photo shoots, or on the road, bored out of their minds. James reckoned he spent a bigger part of any year on that tour bus than he did at his house. It always followed the same recipe: a short adjustment period followed by a period where everyone thought that having your best mates around you the whole time was the greatest thing ever before the euphoria inevitably fizzled out around the two-week mark. This tour was no different; by the time they headed for Hamburg, tour head, as James had dubbed it, had set in. Weeks of being cooped up on a bus together would do things to anyone's heads and the Marauders were no exception. They'd each developed different coping strategies over the years. Gideon would lift weights, James liked to kick back with a football match in the front lounge, Sirius would write in the top lounge, and Fabian would fill his headphones with black metal and have a kip in his bunk. After recharging their batteries for a couple of hours, they would drift into each other's spheres—Gideon would join James in front of the TV, James would grab his own guitar and join Sirius, or Fabian and Sirius would steal Gideon's weights and start a contest.

For the first week or so, they made a point of keeping up with the outside world, checking social media, news sites, read papers, but once tour head really set in, no one bothered anymore. They became their own little bubble, no outside stimuli, getting more stupid, more detached, and more tightly knit every day, to the point where an outsider stepping onto the bus would have no idea what the hell anyone was talking about. Any attempt to explain would fall short, like trying to explain a joke after the fact.

Tempers would run high some days. Usually, it was Fabian losing his patience or James getting annoying (or so the others claimed—James rather thought it was everyone else who were boring). They could deal with that. But when Sirius got into one of his moods, it would spread and fester, souring the whole bus. James tried to be proactive and avoid it by making sure Sirius had some time to himself each day. A Sirius without an outlet was like a lion in a cage. He had tried to explain how his body would physically start to itch from the inside if he didn't have a chance to write. It was his way of decompressing, airing out all the black thoughts he could accumulate during bad interviews or boring social obligations. James could relate. It wasn't a physical need for him, but there had certainly been times in his life too, where music seemed to be the only relief. Fabian found it harder to relate, which often became a source of bickering.

But the real trouble came when Sirius got hit with writer's block. He'd still have the need, feel the itch, the restlessness, but instead of channelling it into creating the material they were all so dependent upon, he would explode and lash out at all of them. And he'd lose his desire to go on stage and would act dead through the whole set. Or dead by Sirius-standards, which was still miles better than most musicians in James's opinion, but that's the word Fabian would use when he yelled at Sirius afterwards. James tried to intervene, to explain to Fabian that he needed to give Sirius a break, that he wasn't a goddamn show pony, and that everyone had bad days, but this caused Sirius to blow up at him instead, telling him to stay the fuck out of his business and stop babying him. Gideon was usually the only one able to keep cool in these situations and if Caradoc was there too, they'd separate the three of them and by the next morning, all would be forgotten. It didn't do to bear grudges on a tour bus.

Fortunately, Sirius seemed to have worked through his last bout of writer's block before they left England, and with any luck, it would be a while before the next one hit. In fact, he was on his third notepad already, claiming to have plenty of new material for them to go through later in the summer when they would go to their studio down in Italy. He also kept a private notebook, one that had followed him for several tours now, its leather cover decorated with stickers, doodles, and little lyric fragments penned in silver. Occasionally, he would show James a few pages from it—most of it raw and unfinished, rarely fitting the style Sirius himself had helped define for the band, but sometimes James could convince him to develop an idea further, and it had led to some of their best work. And more importantly—though Sirius probably didn't realise this—those little, messy snippets often served as James's best gauge of his mental state, so he always analysed every line carefully. At the moment, it didn't look like he needed to be too worried.

And then there were the post cards. Sirius was obviously trying to be sneaky, but James had noticed him buy one in almost every city they hit. Of course, he knew better than to comment, but every time Sirius climbed into his bunk with one and drew the curtains shut, it warmed James's heart a little bit. Purely because he wanted his friend to be happy, of course, not because he secretly hoped for another chance to make an impression on Remus's strong-willed best friend, who just wouldn't seem to leave his thoughts. But whenever James asked, Sirius denied being involved with Remus.

"I was just passing the time, Prongs. I'm not looking for anything. I just wanna focus on the job."

James didn't want to risk starting another argument, so he dropped the subject.

.

Another change this tour were the parties. More specifically, the distinct decline in their frequency. Fabian and Peter didn't understand why things couldn't be like the old days, going out every night getting hammered and sleeping it off on the bus on the way to the next city. The Marauders had always had a reputation for going hard, and James still kinda wanted to, but Sirius staying clean was more important now. Not that he would ever say that out loud, with Sirius generally refusing to even acknowledge it, and no one besides Caradoc knew what really went down in Munich and why Sirius went to California. James still detected a bit of resentment from the twins for having to cut a successful tour short, and he could hardly blame them—from their point of view, Sirius had just insisted on a holiday out of the blue, pulling the plug and ignoring any attempt at communication—but through some silent agreement, it was never addressed.

Hopefully, this tour could make up for it. It certainly seemed like Sirius was trying. When he wasn't in one of his moods, he was more focused on his work than James had ever seen him. The first to rise and the last to go to bed, taking a more active part in the tour planning than strictly necessary, given that both Caradoc and Peter had it handled, and taking up a tight training regimen. He would join James on his morning runs and hit the gym with Gideon whenever they checked into a hotel, and staying long after the drummer was done. He had become more focused on his eating habits too, insisting that their riders included healthier options than pizza and chicken nuggets and refusing to eat the late-night kebabs Fabian had a habit of ordering after a gig. All in all, good changes if slightly out of character.

"Take it easy," James tried to tell him one day after Sirius declined to spend one of their rare days off watching TV and eating nasty food with him in his hotel room like they usually did, claiming he needed to work out and had scheduled an extra interview with a guitar magazine after that.

"We didn't come halfway across Europe to take it easy—that's not what our audience is paying for."

"Come on." James laughed. "The interview can be rescheduled, and it's not like your abs will fall off from skipping one day. Even if they do, we can afford to lower our ticket prices a bit."

"I can't just sit here all day," Sirius snapped, ignoring his attempt at a joke, and was out the door before James could protest further.

And he let it go. Because it was this new-found work ethic that had Sirius leaving most parties that weren't official events early or declining them altogether. Best not to jeopardise that.

Besides, no matter how fun partying was, James couldn't deny that not being hungover five days a week felt good. Being sober on stage felt good. Nerve-wracking and intense, but good. Not going out drinking and smoking every night did wonders for his voice, and a sharper brain meant his playing improved. He even looked better, since he often ended up joining Sirius on his workouts. There wasn't much else to do, and it was a good way to spend some quality time with his best friend, which he found himself needing more and more as they drove deeper into Europe.

Despite being surrounded by people twenty-four-seven, touring could get lonely. Most people they met only wanted the rock star, not the person. He'd learned the hard way that the only people he could truly trust were his band mates, Peter, and Caradoc. Which was probably a problem, but who else was there? There was hardly time to get to know someone new, and he didn't have anyone waiting for a phone call back home. He couldn't help a little sting of jealousy whenever a crew member asked him to wave to their partner and kids on a facetime session, or when the twins had their weekly conference calls with the entire Prewett family, too big for James to even keep track of these days. James's entire family was on this bus with him, and he had no one to send little dirty-sweet goodnight messages to after a long day. No one waiting for him to come home. Yes, he could easily find someone to keep him company for the night, but hooking up with random girls didn't hold the same appeal as it used to. Being worshipped was fun in the beginning, but it was so fucking shallow, wasn't it?

Every night, people were screaming for James Potter, iconic and talented frontman of The Marauders, confident, charismatic, and care-free, but who was screaming for James Fleamont Potter, the sometimes-annoying uni drop-out, who only pretended it didn't get to him whenever people criticised his voice or his looks? Who wore nerdy glasses in the morning until his eyes felt normal enough for him to put in his contacts? The boy who still didn't feel quite right calling himself a man and had no clue what he was doing half of the time? No honest idea why people queued up every night to see him? Why anyone in their right mind would give him a stage this big? James Fleamont Potter who had seen a lot more shit than anyone at twenty-seven ought to. Who still sometimes cried about the fact that his parents would never see what he had made of himself. Would never see him fall in love or get married or give them grandchildren. James Fleamont Potter who had almost let his brother die because he hadn't been paying enough attention.

Sirius was the only one who really knew James this way. Because he'd been there through it all. He was family. And he always listened. He understood. But James couldn't talk to him about Munich. Things were hard enough for Sirius without the added burden of knowing how deeply the events had shaken James. How much it had changed his view on everything around them and how much it hurt him that Sirius was shutting him out. James had tried talking to Caradoc about it, but it was awkward—while he considered their tour manager a friend, there was no getting around the fact that he was also their employee, even though he often felt more like a boss. Talking to Fabian and Gideon would be going behind Sirius's back and just create a bigger rift within the band, and Peter didn't know all the details, having not been there that day, so he wasn't much help either. Not that he had ever been good for these sorts of conversations anyway. So, James was alone in this, with nothing to do but pray that he wasn't missing any signs this time.

.

London, June 10, 2020

"What's got you smiling like that?"

Remus quickly switched off the screen on his phone, hoping Hestia hadn't just seen him grinning stupidly at James Potter's latest Instagram story. More specifically, that she hadn't seen him pause the video at the handsome lead guitarist getting tears in his eyes over a festival crowd singing his song. Perhaps watching this in the tiny back office at the youth centre had been a bad idea, but Hestia had been getting coffee, and they were the only ones left at this hour, the lounge all cleared up after their movie night and the kids sent home.

"Oh, nothing. Just a silly cat video."

"Right," Hestia said, setting a coffee down in front of Remus and retaking her seat at her own desk. "Been watching a lot of cat videos lately? It's not the first time I've seen this smile on your face, y'know."

Remus felt his cheeks heat up, so he stuffed his phone back in his pocket and returned to the spreadsheet he had been working on. They needed to document all expenses and donations from the first half of the year and send it in by the end of the month, and he was hopelessly behind. "I don't know what you mean."

Hestia rolled over to him on her chair. "You wanna know what I think?"

"No, but you're gonna tell me anyway, aren't you?"

Having worked with Hestia for five years now, he knew he wasn't getting out of this. Despite being eight years his senior and technically his boss, the youth centre director had become something of a friend, and they worked well together. She had actually been the one to suggest he join the volunteer group after having helped him with a project about at-risk queer youth he had done as part of his studies. A decision he rarely regretted, but right now he sort of wished he had stayed home tonight.

"I think you're seeing someone," she stated, stirring the sugar in her own coffee.

"That's a nice theory."

She licked the spoon and shook it at him. "It's about time."

"I agree." Remus sighed. "But I'm not."

"Oh, c'mon." She tossed the spoon to her desk with a clang. "You're always checking your phone these days. You. The same guy who once forgot to charge his phone for an entire week."

"Maybe I'm turning a new leaf. Keeping up with stuff for a change."

"Right." She laughed and he almost believed she would let it go when she leant over his desk on her elbow. "I won't tell anyone?"

"Easy promise when there's nothing to tell," Remus said, typing in a few more numbers from the stack of receipts he was trying to work through. Who the hell had ordered a hundred and fifty skeins of cotton yarn? And what had they needed seventy bamboo sticks for?

"Alright, keep your secrets." She held up her coffee mug in surrender and rolled back to her desk. "I just think it would be nice for you, that's all. But since you're not busy then, would you like to help me with the search for sponsors for next year's Pride?"

Remus groaned, though he secretly appreciated the change in topic.

"Hes, that's ages away. And you know I'm not good with that stuff."

He hated phoning people, especially if he had to ask for something. Hestia was much better at this stuff, had much better skills of persuasion. In fact a little too good sometimes.

"Have you tried it?"

"…no," he admitted grudgingly.

"See? It could even be a good way to meet people."

He sipped his coffee, hoping to buy himself some time, but she kept looking at him. "Who says I need to meet people?"

"Look, here's a list." She handed him a printout with business names and contact details. "If you don't wanna ring them, you can just send an email, alright?"

"Fine," Remus grumbled and put the paper into the binder he was taking home.

They worked in silence for a while, but he could feel her dying to grill him again even with her back turned.

"Look…" he said, unable to help himself. "It's just a little complicated, alright?"

She swivelled around and thankfully produced a soft smile instead of a gloating one, waiting for him to go on.

"Nothing can ever come of it, so I just…."

"Why can't anything come of it?" She frowned, then gasped as if struck by a sudden thought. "Wait, he's not married, is he? 'Cause we were there, darling. That didn't work out so great."

"No, no, not married, no. He's just… vastly out of my league?" He winced a little at how pathetic that sounded. "I mean, his life is so far removed from mine, I don't think he's really gonna be interested for that long."

"Hmm." She tapped her chin in a mock look of contemplation. "I'm just sharing ideas here, so correct me if I'm wrong, but is it possible—hear me out!" she said in answer to the angry glare he gave her. "Is it possible you're selling yourself short? You tend to do that, y'know. And we talked about how that's not good for you."

"Maybe." Remus gave her a wry smile. "But he's also away for long periods of time. And he's… you know… not out."

"Oh. I see. That does complicate things a bit."

"Yeah. I mean, it's fine. It's his process—I respect that. I'm lucky to have found a job where I can be myself. I have loving parents, supportive friends, and this community. His situation is…." He searched for the right way to explain this without giving too much away. "…different. I don't know how different, because he's not even comfortable talking about it, but I suspect people in his circles won't be as accommodating. So, I totally get it. I just don't think I can go through all that again, you know? Being someone's secret."

"Hmm." She chewed her lip. "I can't really tell you what to do. Sounds messy."

"Ugh, it is." Remus groaned and rubbed his tired eyes. "But at the same time, it doesn't even matter, does it? Like I said, I don't think anything's gonna come of it, so why does my brain insist on worrying about this stuff? The whole thing is moot the minute he decides I'm too boring for him or realises he could land any person he sets his eyes on. So, I'm allowed to just enjoy it while it lasts, right?"

"Okay, first of all." She pulled his hands away from his face and kept them in hers. "Stop saying shit like, 'you're too boring'. And secondly: I need more info. How long have you been seeing him? When did you last talk to him?"

"Erm, a little over a month now, I think? And I don't know if I would call it talking exactly…" He smiled a little sheepishly. "Since he went away three weeks ago, we've spoken on the phone twice and he sends me postcards sometimes."

She didn't need to know that the calls had been more phone sex than conversation.

"Postcards?" She raised her eyebrows. "Who the fuck does that in this day and age?"

He shrugged and tried in vain to control the heat in his cheeks. "It's just little random poems and stuff like that."

Actually, they were probably songs, but Sirius never wrote any explanations or comments—he didn't even sign his name, probably worried about it falling into the wrong hands.

Her jaw dropped. "That he wrote? As in, he came up with them?"

"I think so…?"

She shook her head and laughed, the volume of it shocking him a bit. "Oh, sweetheart. He likes you."

"But we don't talk about… y'know… real stuff," he protested.

"Oh, babes." Her laughter gave way to a softer smile. "Give it time. When are you seeing him again?"

"That's just it—I don't know. It'll be months before he's even back in the country! And he doesn't write as often as he did in the beginning. I know he's super busy, but…."

"And how often are you writing to him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Christ, Remus. Don't tell me you're just sitting around waiting for the fella?!"

"Erm… no?" he said, wincing a little. He had written to Sirius. Once or twice…. "I just don't wanna, like, bother him, y'know…. He's so busy…."

"Darling, let me give you a little advice right here. If you want something, you've got to go for it. You can't keep hiding behind the belief that he's gonna find you boring. Yes, he very well might, he very well might not. But you're not gonna find out if you're not willing to take that chance. Do something spontaneous once in a while. For heaven's sake—you go to work, you come here twice a week, you have your tight-knit little group of friends. It's all fine and lovely. But it's so safe…! Get out of your comfort zone. Try something different! Who knows—you may even end up liking it."

Remus fell silent. She was absolutely right. He had been stuck in a rut these last few years. He envied people like her who could just get a crazy impulse and follow it without being afraid of the repercussions. But he also knew exactly how much it had cost her. More than once, he had been her shoulder to cry on when she had got her heart broken, yet she always got back up, and now she was marrying the most wonderful woman in a couple of months—'the honey to my bee,' as she liked to say.

Remus wanted that. Wanted to be like that. He wanted to reach out. To be spontaneous. To not let himself be controlled by what happened back in Wales all those years ago. He had not paid for all that therapy just to continue hiding himself away.

"Alright." He took a fortifying breath and tried to smile. "I'll ring him tomorrow."

"Attaboy." She grinned and clapped his shoulder.

A/N: Thank you for reading - I'd love to know your thoughts!

Updates should be fairly frequent for a while as the next three chapters just need to be edited.

Consider this chapter the calm before the storm.